What Deathbeds Are For
by Jehan's Muse
Summary: Chappelle has thirteen minutes to live, and a confession to make. (JackChappelle)


Inspired by a line from the Television Without Pity recap of the episode where Chappelle dies, in which Jack and Chappelle spend seven entire minutes sitting in a helicopter and staring mournfully off into space after Chappelle's metaphorical death warrant is officially signed, and the recapper says "There is no obvious indication that they have spent the last seven minutes making out." I decided that the recapper ought to be proven wrong, because it was a different guy doing the recap that week and I don't like him.

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Jack is accustomed to killing. This is hardly the first time he's been in a position to gun down someone close to him, but he's used to doing it in a split-second, spur-of-the-moment decision with no time to either dread it or regret it. He has never found himself sitting in a helicopter next to a man he is going to have to execute in thirteen minutes, whiling away the time in miserably awkward silence while Chappelle sweats next to him.

God. Idleness makes him squirm; he hates it, but sitting idle knowing that the man next to you is going to be dead by your hand before the half-hour is up is unbearable. He doesn't even try to imagine how much worse it must be to have to sit in impotent silence next to your own executioner. 

He's never felt for Ryan like he does now. The man is undeniably an arrogant prick, but he doesn't deserve to die, and especially not like this. Jack rests a gentle hand on his shoulder. What else can he do?

Chappelle exhales tremulously, squirming in his seat. "It's like I've got ants crawling under my skin," he says weakly. Jack grips his shoulder tighter, and Chappelle seems to take a tiny measure of comfort from the warmth of Jack's hand. 

"It's going to be all right, Ryan," Jack murmurs, wondering how the hell he can say that with a straight face.

Chappelle scoffs, and then turns to him impulsively. "Jack," he says desperately, "there's something I have to say to you before I die."

He's being ordained to hear a last confession, it would seem. God. "Anything. I'm listening."

"You're a pain in the ass, Jack. You make my job hell. You've never followed an order in your life, you have no respect for your superiors--least of all me--and...it would have made my life a hell of a lot easier if I'd never met you. I've been having to put my ass on the line for you since the day you started working for me, and I have _always_ resented the fuck out of you for it."

Jack takes this all without comment. "Are you finished, Ryan?"

"Of course I'm not finished," Chappelle snaps. "Would I want those to be the last words I ever said to someone? I'm not Edmunds." Jack doesn't point out that Chase doesn't know what's happening here. Chappelle knows; he doesn't blame Chase, not really. "I'm going to tell you something now," he continues, "and I want you to _swear_ to me that once I tell you, you will put it completely out of your mind until I'm dead. Do you understand? I'm going to get it off my chest, and you're going to forget about it."

"I understand." As last requests go, it isn't unreasonable.

Chappelle closes his eyes. Jack can see him trembling now. "I've already told you what a miserable pain in the ass you are," he says, his voice shaking. "But...in spite of that, completely in spite of it, I...have always..._cared_ about you more than anyone else in my life." He glances up at Jack, scared for an entirely new reason now. "Do you get it, Jack?"

"Go on."

"I...I admire you. I always have. I've always wished I could do something to make you not hate me, but I was too afraid you might suspect something. It...god, it really does sound stupid when you put it all out there, doesn't it? Like a...schoolboy crush or something." He laughs bitterly. "I've worshipped you from afar, for _years._ My biggest fear was that you'd find out somehow and I'd be completely ruined. So I...I went so far out of my way to make sure you never knew that I made you hate me."

_I never hated you,_ Jack thinks, his mind feeling scrambled. This all seems foreign. Chappelle, admitting to feelings for him--of course he isn't lying, not now, but it all seems surreal. "What are you trying to tell me?" he demands.

"Oh, for god's sake, Jack!" Chappelle slams his hand down violently on the armrest. "This is the closest thing to a deathbed confession that I _get,_ all right? Don't make this hard for me!"

"I don't understand what you're trying to say, Ryan. Explain this to me."

"I'm telling you that I love you! I love you; I've loved you for years, I've never loved anyone _but_ you, and I am going to love you until the minute you put a bullet through my brain. All right? Am I making myself clear enough here, Jack? Do you get it now?" He settles, breathing heavily. "You promised me you'd forget about it now."

"Forget about it?" says Jack, reeling. "I'm not going to forget about it."

"You promised me you would!" Chappelle protests, starting up. "Jack! You can't break a promise to someone who's going to die."

"When someone tells you something like that, you _do_ something about it; you don't just forget it." Jack shakes his head.

"So just what do you plan to do about it?" Chappelle sneers. "Jack, this is my last request. This is my _dying wish_ here. It's not an unreasonable one. It's the least you could do. Pretend I never said anything."

Jack never leaves something like that hanging. Ryan is focused on the floor, wishing he'd never confessed. Jack lays a gentle hand alongside his face, turns Ryan's head to face him and kisses him.

He's chaste about it at first, and Ryan leans in with a shuddering sigh, but only for a moment. "Jack," he demands, pulling away, "what the hell do you think you're doing? I don't want your _pity_ right now, okay? I don't want you touching me if you aren't sincere about it."

"If I weren't sincere," says Jack, "I'd be doing what you asked me to, and forgetting about it."

Chappelle falters. "You can't be serious about this."

"I am."

Jack waits for Chappelle to process this. They don't have much time, and they both know it. Chappelle pulls Jack back towards him, climbing back up to sit on the divider between the seats and twining a hand into Jack's hair and kissing him hard, shaking, over and over again. His kiss is awkward, slightly frantic, and Jack squeezes his hand to steady him and strokes the thin, close-cropped hair at the back of Ryan's head. Ryan melts, letting Jack take over and deepen the kiss. Jack takes Ryan's face between his hands and pushes his tongue against Ryan's, noting how Chappelle tastes like office coffee and somehow something like paper, and how this doesn't surprise him. He can feel Chappelle's lips trembling against his own.

"It's all right," he whispers against Ryan's mouth, "it's going to be fine."

"Stop saying that," Chappelle pleads. "It isn't fine. I have ten minutes to live, Jack, for christ's sake. It _can't_ be fine. Just...distract me, will you?"

Jack distracts him, pulling Ryan halfway into his lap and kissing him again and again. Ryan gives as good as he gets.

Never in a million years did Jack think he would live to see his boss like this, never would he have thought he'd live to see Ryan Chappelle sitting halfway astride his lap and kissing him desperately like it's the last thing he has on earth to hold onto. But then, never did Jack think he'd ever be ordered directly by the President of the United States to take Ryan Chappelle to a deserted train yard and shoot him like a dog.

Chappelle pulls away, reluctant to let go. "We have to stop this," he says. "It's...it's just making it harder."

Jack squeezes his hand and lets it drop. "I understand."

Chappelle, with an awkward glance down at the floor, slides back into his own seat and closes his eyes. "Jack," he says quietly. "Thank you."

Jack nods, and lets him lapse back into silence.


End file.
